


and one man in his time plays many parts

by Enterthetadpole



Category: British Actor RPF, Good Omens (TV) RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Established Relationship, Face Slapping, Falling In Love, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:54:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22624369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole
Summary: It only takes a few more times for Michael to realize he unleashed a monster, and not the kind that breathes fire to destroy poorly placed villages. Those types are quicker to make excuses for not going out to lunch on lazy weekdays. They didn't lob smiles with double meanings written in the laugh lines of that face.
Relationships: Michael Sheen/David Tennant
Comments: 23
Kudos: 93





	and one man in his time plays many parts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [equestrianstatue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/equestrianstatue/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [equestrianstatue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/equestrianstatue/pseuds/equestrianstatue). Log in to view. 



> This is a continuation of a wonderful one Shennat story by equestrianstatue, who gave their blessing to me writing this slice of sexy silliness. While it's not absolutely necessary to read their story first, this follow up will make a lot more sense in context if you do. So, go on and please send their story some love. My part two will still be here patiently waiting for you!
> 
> Also, some housekeeping before we get to the insanity. 
> 
> 1\. This is a real person fanfiction, and is totally my own invention. I adore not only David and Michael both in and out of Ineffable Husband form but also their flirty banter in interviews and online. 
> 
> 2\. This story is all about fun and fantasy. No Scottish or Welsh heartthrobs were actually injured in the making of this story. 
> 
> 3\. Comments and kudos are like chicken soup for my writing soul. 
> 
> Thank you to both Raechem for your wonderful beta work and Fandoms_Unite for the awesome cheerleading. And of course to equestrianstatue for the inspiration!
> 
> And now, in the words of great Margo Channing, "Fasten your seat belts. It's going to be a bumpy night."

It only takes a few more times for Michael to realize he unleashed a monster, and not the kind that breathes fire to destroy poorly placed villages. Those types are quicker to make excuses for not going out to lunch on lazy weekdays. They didn't lob smiles with double meanings written in the laugh lines of _that_ face. That face full of softly sprayed freckles and the impossible hairline. That face with it's telepathic ability to mutter dirty things for Michael to do right after this latest gauntlet of interviews. That face which has felt the heat of Michael's hand so much that his fingerprints are probably stuck in the layers of David's cheekbones. Invisible tattoos for the two of them to recall what a _bit of rough_ truly felt like on both sides of the coin. 

The light slapping moves rather quickly to firmer smacks, and Michael goes with it. Because that's what you do when that Scottish brogue tells you _it's grand_ or _give it another go_ or _fuck mate,_ _I'm nearly there_. When the sting of skin on skin has those glorious eyes the color of autumn sunsets roll back as if Michael's breaking him apart with pleasure. The slender hips stuttering underneath him as Michael stares at his own opened palm as if it's a brand new tool meant to do more than just hold scripts and cups of lukewarm tea.

The hits are confident, but nothing that can cause any _real_ damage. David - just like all actors - lives and dies by their faces being as _perfectly them_ as possible. However the two of them ride the edge enough for Michael to feel some research is in order. He just wishes that there were better ways to search BDSM pain etiquette without feeling like some sort of middle aged man trying to pick up younger vices at a new underground kink club. Christ, do those types of dance clubs actually exist? He'd ask David, but that sexy git is still rattled by eggplant emojis. 

Thankfully his years in a particular series involving the pleasures of orgasms and all the actions around them are enough to fill in the spaces between initial first kisses and the glorious spills in the curve of his fist or on the surface of his chest and belly. Michael may not survive whatever this is, but he's already bought the ticket and he's damn well not going to chicken out now. 

They test out new angles and situations like others might take sips of wine at tastings, except that they don't spit anything out. Instead Michael swallows each and every last one of David's moans and guttural purrs. Places them in little sections of his brain labeled _Brilliant_ and _Lovely_ and _Well Hello There, New Wanking Material_. As far as David goes, he's just along for the ride. His arms outstretched and mouth opened as if he's on a slap-me-horny rollercoaster. His voice shrill and giddy as he shouts. 

_Faster! Harder! Firmer!_

During daybreak, when they are upright and trying their best to appear not too enamored, David calls Georgia and reads old books that smell faintly of history lessons. Michael, on the other hand - pun intended - finds updated strategies on how to not ruin this arrangement. He respects David way too much to deal with things as dangerous as _feelings_. Feelings are what get people crying while eating tubs of fattening ice cream or writing confessionals onto the back of dirty bathroom stalls. No, their times together are to stay light and airy like those angel food cake slices Michael ate for take after take as Aziraphale. 

However, David is too oblivious to realize his charm is dragging Michael down into depths that are made for romantic comedies. It doesn't help that even David's _snores_ are adorable. His face pressed against the crook of Michael's neck in random hotel rooms. The climaxes too fantastic to have either one of them make it to the shower - let alone get their fucking clothes on. 

Georgia and Anna are aware, of course, because they're clever and open minded and way too wonderful to be this understanding. Just as long as it stays casual and quiet then it's fine. 

_Casual_ and _quiet._

Michael is reminded of how these two words might as well have been his descriptors when he was in secondary school. This isn't where this randy train of thought is headed. It's instead going to derail into an explosion of oxytocin and dopamine, with Michael in the engine room and wearing a conductor's hat. Being feral shouldn't be this involved, but somehow Michael has lost his footing and fallen headfirst into something warm and fuzzy and with _very_ male anatomy. 

It's at a Saturday afternoon brunch in LA on the second to last leg of _Good Omens_ promotions that it occurs to Michael that this isn't light and airy anymore. Perhaps it's the way that the sunlight is hitting David's tanned skin, or the lovely classical music that drifts like some sort of spell in between bites of wedge salad with made from scratch blue dressing, but suddenly Michael is on his feet and racing towards the restroom. His heart isn't supposed to do this. Not now when everything is just the right shades of controlled and communicated. 

Yet here he is - a man pacing the tiled floors of the otherwise empty bathroom of a four michelin star restaurant. Talking to himself in third person like some sort of love sick madman. 

"Michael," he says, pointing at his reflection in the mirror. "Now you listen to me. You are _not_ to fall in love with David Tennant, right? You have career obligations and a _bloody_ beautiful girlfriend. You have _children_ , for fuck's sake, who both need you to _not_ become some sort of walking wet dream for what? Two fandoms at least?"

Hell, not even his reflection believes him. It stands there, in a looking glass world in reverse, but still with his same beard and wild curls and barely hidden bite marks from last night's romp with a man who's probably sitting at their outside table wondering what on earth just happened to their pleasant brunch date?

Oh, good Lord. Now Michael's calling this a _date_ . What's next? A couple's retreat at some swanky Four Seasons ski lodge? Mimosas in a jacuzzi pool on the Ivory coast? Him announcing his now flagrant bisexuality on **the Late Show with Stephen Colbert** , or would that go over better on **Graham Norton**?

"Michael? You okay in there?"

David's voice sounds worried from the other side of the door. It's nearly childlike in its wavering notes, and that type of tenderness is more like an anchor around Michael's neck than the life preserver he really needs. 

"Fine," Michael says back, and he's startled by how casual he sounds. Casual _and_ quiet as a matter of fact. "Just felt a bit off. Be back in a tick."

Michael feels the Tennant-sized warmth pull away from the door. It’s akin to the sun setting in the middle of winter. Gone way too soon, and now the darkness and cold is all that exists. This hiccup in the universe is loud enough to let both of them know that this would be discussed later on. That's fine with Michael. He's built for delaying uncomfortable conversations. Especially when the other person is easily distracted by hot kisses and even hotter slaps to the face. 

His mirrored reflection almost tsks at him for this plan, and for once Michael doesn't try to defend one bloody thing. That's a _future_ Michael's problem. 

However future Michael is in luck tonight, because David is pliant and giggly with enough champagne from the after dinner party in Soho to keep him from mentioning Michael's early afternoon escape to the loo. Right now David's back is pushed up against the hotel door and he's attempting his damnedest to place his tongue in every part of Michael's open mouth. As if he's planning on permanently setting up residence there. Not that Michael minds that at all.

David wore a dark brown suit tonight. The color of the coffee Michael will be surely pouring out in an oversized cup for the impending hangover David will be nursing tomorrow. There's also a tie that Michael has been wanting to tug at since they arrived separately - just in case. That same dark brown suit is now peeled off and strewn about like wrinkled snakeskin over the floor and fallen desk chair. The tie is a flashy golden bronze color, and is the only thing David will be wearing for the rest of the night, if Michael has any say in it. 

"Oh fuck…" David moans as he comes up for air. His long fingers wind into Michael's head of curls as he's lifted up just enough to wrap his naked torso around Michael's still clothed lower waist. 

"That's it," Michael whispered. "Let me hear how I make you feel, yeah?"

Then before David could catch his breath Michael took his right hand and gave David's face a moderate slap. The noise rung through the air and David bucked his flushed cock against Michael's clothed erection. His head lolls in the direction of the hit and stays there as he curses again. 

It shouldn't still feel like this, but it does. As if the new car scent and shiny leather interior is still showroom fresh. David's swiveling hips as alluring as a finely tuned engine. The way he pulls Michael's hair mimicking a strong breeze with the top down.

Perhaps it's really Michael who's along for the ride. David's hands slide down to Michael's neck, and squeeze just enough to get Michael to see the ghost of stars. Just the right amount of pressure and peril that has Michael's groin spring up at attention. Place a checkmark in the _definitely doing that again_ box. 

Then they are kissing once more. This time slow and needy and full of words that are way more than keeping quiet and staying casual. At least for Michael. Part of him wants to divulge the secret. Before his heart betrays him completely and jumps out of his throat and into David's hands. That's who it _really_ belongs to at this stage, anyway. 

David's leg muscles flex as he locked his ankles around the small of Michael's back. Bare heels digging in like a colon sign to aid in an explanation or an enumeration. Fuck it if Michael has either one of _those_ prepared in his back pocket. 

"You've got too much clothing on," David whispers into the shell of Michael's ear. David's fingers already are fumbling with Michael's button and zipper. Michael gives a dark chuckle as the sound of overpriced trousers fall to around his calves. Socks still on, because if this is going to be a porno might as well go all the way with it. Then Michael’s index finger is placed into David parted lips and sucked wet and warm before pressing it into David's puckered hole. 

It's a crime how much Michael waits for this. The hitch of David's breath. The blended concoction of rapture and surprise that Michael has to bathe in like it’s holy water. Both lecherous and innocent and _fuck_ he might as well be writing his wedding vows on the slants of David’s ribcage. Michael’s mind is busy sending telegrams to the rest of his internal organs that Mr. David John Tennant now resides in every nook and cranny of him. Silly things like the spleen and gallbladder need to start getting their bags packed. David deserves _all_ that room. 

There’s nothing left for Michael now. That fat lady has already sung and left the opera hall. All that beats is David’s pulsepoint. Michael can feel it on his fingertips as he presses in and finds David’s prostate. The ecstasy that Michael accepts will be the start and middle and end of him. He doesn’t say that he loves David during the inevitable peak. That isn’t fair for either of them. Not when David is coming undone against the wall of a room covered with reproductions of classical paintings. Not when Michael can convince David to stay a while, and enjoy him becoming heavier in his arms and wake up to that amazing tangle of bedhead. 

That’s when Michael will tell him. It’ll hurt when David goes all apologetic and stumbling over his words. Rambles on about unreasonable distances and even more unreasonable committed partnerships. Grabs just enough of his suit to be able to run out of Michael’s life until he’s out of breath and change his mobile number to something difficult for anyone to memorize - or worse yet - unlisted. 

“Oh god, Michael,” David rasps, his body spent and boneless. “I love you…”

It takes way too long for Michael’s mind to connect the dots. Of course it happens that way. David steals the line meant for Michael’s character, and as always, David says it a thousand times better. 

The bastard. 

Michael’s eyes roam over David’s face, all blissed out and barely conscious. The evidence of his orgasm in the crime scene of splashes over their torsos. David's cheeks red from a combination of intentional slaps and unmistaken arousal. It takes all of Michael’s inner strength not to kiss David until his lips turn purple from too much abuse. Who knows? Perhaps that's a turn-on for David as well. Michael will ask him tomorrow, when the world begins to settle into this recent version of normality. When he gets to say that he loves David back, and then let the true adventures begin. 


End file.
